


Bloody Knuckles Beating Brick

by Lightly_Toasted



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood, Dream Smp, Emotional Hurt, Light Angst, Other, Self-Esteem Issues, Swearing, sad quackity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29007663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightly_Toasted/pseuds/Lightly_Toasted
Summary: After his loss to Technoblade Quackity decides to visit an old "friend"
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Bloody Knuckles Beating Brick

It was easier for Quackity to tell himself anyone would’ve lost against “The Blade”. He’d consistently lived up to his reputation, a weapon of mass destruction that stopped at nothing, if you could get him on your side you were protected for life and avenged after it.

They hadn’t been able to take him in a group so going solo was suicide.

Yet solo he went.

He’d gripped his axe and swung with reckless abandonment, each strike just lacking in the finality he so hoped it to have. In the end he wasn’t the one to finish it. He was struck down, his fury unrelenting, blinding him from the realization that he was about to die until it was too late.

Instead, he awoke, swarmed by allies and questions, ones he didn’t feel they had time to answer. The adrenaline rush was quickly subsiding, leaving in its wake tiredness that knew no bounds. Flooding into the meeting room, the same blood still splattered their clothes and the same propaganda still hung loosely on the walls. 

He was quick to convince them that their sights should be set elsewhere. Dream, a tyrant, a God in some rights, instead of a faithful follower like Technoblade often proclaimed he was.

Taking him down was the bigger fish to fry and the plans would soon begin to form.

\---

Why Quackity had dragged his feet and hung his head to the gravesite was something he wasn’t sure of. He felt shame at his defeat, but lie after lie held it off for the time being. So now with aching muscles and broken teeth he’d found himself once again standing at the foot of Jschlatt's grave. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d been here, during the ceremony when everyone had gathered to “commemorate” the man he was the one most often trampling over the freshly turned dirt. When he’d hatched the plan to resurrect Jschlatt he’d stood over the casket, breathing hard and leaning against a shovel, savoring the moment, before taking what was left of the skeletal remains. 

But here and now he felt the need to confess as if Schlatt would rise just to give him one last jeer with his normal scowl.

To tell him for the umpteenth time how useless he was. To compare how he’d been able to have the pig carry out dirty work, while Quackity couldn’t even best the beast in combat that had leaned in his favor.

He gathered what saliva was left in his dry mouth and spat down onto the grave absentmindedly.

“I fucked up, Schlatt”, he paused, looking toward the altar, the painting of Jschlatt that had once sat at the top having long since been torn away, “Not worse than you but still.”

Quackity ran a still shaky hand through his hair. A determined huff came from him as he began pacing, arms gesturing wildly as he spoke in mostly mumbling.

“You should have seen it, he lived. We dropped a fucking anvil on him and he lived like it was nothing. He could still run and afterward, he was thanking _Dream_ of all people. He was trapped like a rat, I could’ve finished the job. It was complete bullshit. I. Fucked. Up"

He finished, coming to a sudden stop and whipping his head towards the grave, but Schlatt wasn’t there. If he was he would have surely told him the shut up by now. 

He was alone, standing at the memorial of the man he hated. Who he had celebrated the untimely departure of. Who somehow still made him feel like he was the worse person to spite everything.

\---

Quackity wasn’t sure what time Jschlatt got up to start his day drinking, but every time they’d step into the meeting room the thick scent of liquor would be heavy in the air. The horned-man stood tall and firm, never letting his clear alcoholism get in the way of making swift strides.

He’d always be taking sips of what looked like whiskey. He always had a flask hidden away under his jacket.

You could pinpoint the moment the president’s mood would sour. Whether it be when Quackity would walk in the room, or voice an opinion, or speak at all. He did, however, take a liking to Tubbo, who he’d dubbed his protege in every way but name.

Quackity hadn’t been the one to betray Schlatt without reason, but after everything he was treated the same day in and out. Drunk or not. In front of others or behind closed doors. It didn’t matter that Quackity had proved his loyalty by staying at the man's side after the execution, Schlatt only became angrier, more paranoid.

Quackity could still remember the breath of fresh air that hit his lungs after he’d killed Schlatt, the relief that had flooded through him. To spite the fact it was short-lived as he was hunted down shortly after. 

He would have stayed, but Schlatt was the one to push him away, just like he did everyone else. Schlatt had people on his side once, but not anymore.

So when they found him, already drunk, sitting in the drug caravan, Quackity had known it was over. He knew Schlatt was going to die.

\---

Oh, die he did. Going out not with a bang, but a whimper. The simple words of “Don’t kill me, I’m scared of that” echoing throughout the hectic van.

No one heard those words, no one cared about the man’s slurred plea, but to Quackity it was almost comforting knowing that Schlatt was somewhat human, knowing he could fear. 

The last words they ever spoke to each other had been nothing more than another spat that they’d already had a million times over.

\---

“If I die, this country goes down with me,” Quackity placed a hand on the headstone, the elements having already wiped away its original pristine, ”That’s what you told us.”

“You were wrong, and we’re gonna prove it.” with that Quackity reeled back his fist and let it slam into the stone.

Over and over until his knuckles split and pieces of the brick had lodged themselves in his skin.

Over and over until tears stung his eyes.

Over and over, hoping that Schlatt was able to feel it in Hell.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic on A03 hope it goes well


End file.
